Mechanization: 150th Hunger Games
by blu.balloon
Summary: "All of a sudden, I realize what's wrong. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't breathe. Because I'm not human anymore; I'm a machine."
1. Chapter 1

Summary: The districts have accepted their fates, that they will forever bow to the iron rule of the Capitol. This year will mark the passing of the 150th Hunger Games, a Quarter Quell. Spectators are starving for a good show, and what better way to appease them than a little... twist? By game start, these tributes won't be human- they'll be machine.

* * *

**Mechanization: The 150th Hunger Games**

Prologue

* * *

_Reuben Foltoxus - Head Gamemaker, 150th Hunger Games_

* * *

It's a taxing job, making up ways to kill children.

Oh, you don't think so? Well. Aren't you a simple one. I bet you've never thought of the Games as anything but a source of entertainment. Has it ever crossed your mind, how the arena is created, how the mutts are made? Have you the faintest idea how we structure the events? I'm sure your sole answer to these questions will be "technology". My friend, your narrow mind never fails to amuse me.

Yes, yes, I'm sure you're as much of a fan as everyone else. Why wouldn't you be? The costumes, interviews, gambling on tributes. It's all fun and _games _for you, isn't it. The highlight of the year, the wondrous time when morals are abandoned and our Capitol extravagance is at its peak. An absolute treat.

I only wish that the public would take into consideration the painstaking effort that we Gamemakers put into this pageant. I don't blame you for getting caught up in the hype. But it is quite difficult, you know. It's difficult to make death interesting _(exhilarating)_; there are only so many ways to end a person's life, after all. Does one simply wait for a tribute to die? No, no. Planning must be involved. Death must be unique in order to draw the attention, to hold the breath. We must make it so.

The contributing factors of death: Who, what, when, where, why. Each one must be given a hint of drama, tension. The buildup of death a myriad of notes, of events, lovely melodies and harmonies swelling up to those glorious final moments, those heart-stopping screams. We don't want the games to be boring, now do we?

Death by suffocation. A sword to the heart. Drowning, burning, electrocution. Poison. Being eaten alive. Suicide. Cannibalism.

Oh, I've seen it all. And yet, I never tire of it.

Ah, "Why," you ask?

You see, it's the simplest thing:

Every tribute had- or, in the case of the victor, _has_- a life. Each year, it is simply _fascinating_ to see the soul festering behind the eyes, that spark of desperation or desire of a tribute when they are Chosen. We, the most fervent spectators, wait with a shivering anticipation. So much spirit, these tributes have.

We know, most of all, how it will be broken.

It is my favorite part of the Games, observing the descent into madness. Watching the innocent child drown themselves in the blood of the enemy, hacking away in a fury that is alien to them. The Career, born and bred for murder, yet with bright, fearful eyes at the mercy of a muttation. No matter the background, the experience, the goal or will, all twenty-four tributes die when the games begin, that spirit obliterated and ripped from their being as they succumb to the madness of the arena. At the end of it all there is death, nothing more.

And the Victor? They may have evaded death, but they have not won any game. Take away the title, and there is only a survivor. A single life spared.

We of the Capitol crave control. Control of our Districts. It's as simple as that. In our view the Hunger Games are the highest form of entertainment, as we crush these once-rebellious District insects until they have lost all the hope in them. Something within us is satiated as we see tributes transform into feral animals. We are assured that we maintain power enough to transform them - to mold them as we wish.

Tributes are simply trapped rats to be toyed with. Nothing more than playthings at our hands.

Of course, they become irritating when they... _hunger _for more.

Wouldn't you agree?

...

...Ah, forgive me. I'm sure such serious discussion is quite... unpleasant for you. Heh. I suppose you'll just have to get used to it. Else you won't be prepared for this year's Hunger Games– a _Quarter Quell_.

"Mechanization of the Reaped". It's quite... Extraordinary. New, but exciting. Death will be quite the rage with _these_ tributes.

Yes... They'll be _starving_ for it.

* * *

_"Mechanization of the Reaped"_

_"This Quarter Quell, to remind the districts that they are the property of the Capitol and forever belong to it, the Chosen tributes shall be totally, robotically modified. Their lives will depend exclusively on the operation of their mechanical being, and they will become living weapons of the Capitol. They will be rid of their status as human, and exist solely to fight each other to the death as true weapons should._

_For no peoples that defy the order of Panem may ever be considered human, as they knowingly resist an order of peace."_


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Here we go with the Reapings! Each district will have their own chapter just for Reapings... Time to figure out who you love or hate. :D**

* * *

District 1

* * *

_Nero Caligula, 13 Years Old_

* * *

Here is the thing about envy: it's like poison. Once it gets inside of you, you can't get it out– because it spreads.

At first, when she came, I thought hating her was only going to be temporary. She was loud, selfish, and everyone hovered over her as if they were _her_ relatives, cooing and clamoring over her every action. I figured she wouldn't hog spotlight for long, that they'd realize how annoying and useless she was soon enough, and all eyes would be on me again. Because I'm the strong one, the future Victor– and I was here _first_. Things would go back to normal, I thought.

But that wasn't the case.

And now, sitting here six years later, at the biggest Pre-Reaping party of the district, under the gaze of the sharpest and wealthiest socialites in One, all I want to do is wring my little sister's neck.

"Nero, darling," Elagabalus says, eyeing my clenched hands, "Nero, dear, calm down. People are staring." My friend, a crossdresser, pulls on the hem of his dress anxiously and gives me a look. "Nero." I scowl.

"She's getting all the attention," I bite out acidly, watching as she smiles at a compliment. "Oh, Octavia, you're _absolutely precious_!" I mutter, mimicking the voices of the gushing women. "They're all suck-ups."

Elagabalus bites his lip, fighting back a smile. I grin, knowing I've got him. "You know it's true," I say, raising my chin, smug. "District 1 ladies are suck-ups and fuc–"

I don't finish, as Elagabalus swats me over the head with his purse. "Ow!" Elagabalus gives me a wicked smirk and leans in to hug me. I try to escape, mortified about him doing this in public. "My _absolutely precious_ darling baby Nero, you simply _must_ watch your language!" he chides, pinning my head to his chest. "If you're not old enough to do it, you can't say it!"

"Elagabalus– get– off!"

"My _radiant, beautiful_ star, Elagabalus will protect your innocent ears from the sinful language of adults! Your purity is safe with me~!"

I manage to pry Elagabalus off me, face burning with embarrassment. I look around to see if anyone's noticed– thankfully, it doesn't seem so –and shove his arm. "Don't do that when people are watching! I'm not a baby," I mutter, glowering.

Elagabalus pats me on the head. "Of course you aren't. You're just a thirteen-year old kid with the face of an angel. I understand if you're in denial."

I blush. I know I look younger than I am, my face softer than it should be, my eyelashes thicker than most boys'. My height doesn't help, either.

I shove him again.

"Whoa, Nero, what's got your panties all twisted up?" Elagabalus laughs at this, and I look up to see that Commodus has joined in, lounging over the couch with a drink in hand, grinning. "Finally found a girl short enough for ya?"

"Go find your own crossdresser mess with!" I snap, but only joking, and Commodus howls with laughter.

These parties I have to attend are a drag, but everything's better with Elagabalus and Commodus here. They might be older than me, but they just... _get_ me. They can see past my stupid facades, are the loyalest of friends, and I respect them for that. We've been the closest of friends since _she _was born. I figure that's the only good thing that came from her birth. Everything else has just gotten worse.

"Family", for instance. Does that even exist in my life?

Commodus ruffles my hair and grabs the spot next to me, practically yelling over the chatter. "I'll tell you what, Missus Velvet A. Vermeer is a witch, but the woman knows how to throw a party!" He makes a sweeping motion with his arm. "The best of the best in the district-" he winks, "-and hot chicks."

I make a face. Girls are annoying, gossipy, and, worst of all, clingy. "Yeah, right. I don't even know you can like such ugly people."

Commodus just smiles lazily. "Well, well. So what do you think, 'Lagabus? Is Angel Boy here feminine enough for you to take him under your... wing?"

I laugh at the awful joke, and Elagabalus looks delighted. "Why, Commodus, I thought you'd never ask!"

Commodus lets out a whoop, but I shake my head. "No way, guys! Besides, I won't even be here for you to turn me into a girl!"

The second I've said it, I regret it. The mood is killed instantly.

My friends stop laughing. Elagabalus stares at me, brows furrowed. "Wait, Nero darling. What do you mean, you 'won't even be here'?"

I smirk, but am inwardly unnerved by their reactions. "You know what I mean."

Commodus leans forward, mouth open. "You're volunteering _this year_? For the Quarter Quell?"

"Yeah. You... didn't think I would?" I say, not meeting his eyes. I feel guilty about not telling them before, but it's not like they asked, either. And they know, more than anyone, how much I love the Games.

The Hunger Games are awesome. There's no other word for it. All of Panem is watching you as you charm your way to sponsors, allies. They'll see you go in for a kill, manipulate and crush the other tributes. I can do that. I may be little and seem helpless, but when I backstab a tribute they won't just be fawning over my face anymore. And I want that. I want people to see me as I am. I can destroy them and I can rip them apart, and I am worthy of respect. Everyone should know that.

The fame, the glory, the power. I've been waiting for my shot at the Games my whole life. All eyes will be on _me_.

Elagabalus' voice is a strained whisper. "They're going to turn you into a machine, Nero."

"I know that!" I say tersely. "I know what they're gonna do, okay? I know what I'm getting into."

"The _hell _you do!" Commodus snaps, glaring at me. "You have _five years_ after this to get in the Games. Five years of extra training. You're smarter than that. Why the hell are you volunteering now?"

"I just want to, okay, Commodus? I'm ready for it. I know I am."

Commudus shakes his head, and lets out a 'huh'. "Yeah, whatever. I see what this's all about. Agrippina Caligula wants her boy in the Games now, doesn't she? And he's eager to please."

I freeze, and Elagabalus swears softly. Commodus stares me down. "Don't do it, Nero. Not this year. _I_ don't even want to volunteer. The Quell is messed up. It's going to mess _you_ up."

I look away. "I'm volunteering," I mutter stubbornly, "and you can't stop me."

Before one of them has time to open their mouth, I'm up and walking away. I know Commodus is right. It's just worse hearing the truth out loud. I do want to win the Games, but there's more to it, too.

Thinking about it makes me want to punch someone's face. And I'm almost out the door when I spot the cause of my troubles, tiny and still smiling like the stupid fool she is. Dolled up in those flowery clothes, she looks almost plastic.

My hands tighten automatically, nails digging into my palms, and I clench my jaw, seeing red. My sister is the cause of everything. Octavia has no idea what she's done to my life. She's stolen my position, turned me into second-best, unworthy of attention. And everyone adores her instead.

I want to kill her. The only reason I don't is because I catch the face of a person next to her.

A woman. She's dark-haired and all thin, sharp angles. Radiating charisma, a group of friends surround her like a bubble, and she stands easy and confident, an untouchable queen.

I swallow as she toys with a lock of my sister's hair. Her expression is cold, but smiles slide effortlessly across her face, like oil. One of her admirers says something and her lips tighten back in approval. My sister cries out in protest as her hair is tugged on too hard.

The woman's green eyes claw the room and flick downwards to meet mine. They are hard, bright. Her lips pull back again, too much, and she calls me over. "Nero," I imagine. I obey immediately. My mind is numb as I walk towards her, screaming obedience.

"Hello, Mrs. Vermeer, Mrs. Jovesnet," I greet, now a carefree boy with a charming grin. I ignore Octavia, who waves at me shyly, and turn to the dark-haired woman. "Mother."

"Nero! We were just talking about you, young man," Mrs. Vermeer informs me, patting my cheek. Her diamond-encrusted nails scrape my skin a little as she pulls away. "Such a gorgeous boy, Agrippina. You must be so proud. He's what, thirteen now? Is he looking to volunteer for the Games anytime soon?"

My mother doesn't take her eyes off me when she replies. Her voice is measured, a languid drawl. "Mm. This year, in fact. Aren't you, Nero?" Her eyes flash in warning, as if I am going to say otherwise.

"Yeah. I'm volunteering this year." Mrs. Joveset and Mrs. Vermeer titter in surprise.

"Surely not! Aiming to win the Quell, dear?" Mrs. Jovesnet asks, eyebrows up to her hairline. I offer her an impish smile.

"The bigger the show, the better the reward, right?" This elicits amused laughter.

Mrs. Vermeer chuckles. "Agrippina, he's quite the charmer! I wish you luck then, boy, if you do go."

My smile widens despite myself, and I am about to reply when Mrs. Jovesnet chimes in. "But don't end up like your father, now!"

And for the second time this night, the mood is killed.

Mrs. Vermeer looks as if she's swallowed a toad, and gapes at Mrs. Jovesnet, who is oblivious to the effects of her words. My mother drops Octavia's hair and fixes Mrs. Jovesnet with an undecipherable look. Her lips tighten back and her white teeth are too bright.

Mrs. Vermeer attempts to save the doomed Plada Jovesnet. "N-now, ladies-"

"Don't antagonize me with such talk, Velvet." My mother warns. She directs her words to Mrs. Jovesnet now, "I'm positive Nero is stronger than his father."

My gaze slides to my mother's face, so familiar and so unknown. I swallow her up with my sight, and I try to determine if she's being honest. Could it be, does she really think so?

"My late husband was a fool with too much arrogance. He always thought he was the best of the best," my mother continues, a hint of scorn leaking onto her voice. "He looked down on the younger tributes as they posed no threat to him. And what happened?"

She picks up a lock of my sister's hair again, like Octavia is a pet. She runs her palm through the cornsilk strands, washed with the finest products money can buy. "He was slaughtered by a twelve-year-old rat from Five. Killied by his own stupidity. And I thought, 'What a waste he was. A waste of _time_. _Money_. _Effort_."

She is not speaking to just Mrs. Jovesnet anymore.

Mother tilts Octavia's chin to see her face. "I suppose that's why I married Pompey so soon after then, dears. He was different." Octavia's squirmish, bored and tired, but I can see it. The dark eyes, strong jaw and structure. She's born of a Victor, something _my_ father wasn't.

"Nero is different too, isn't he. How could he _possibly_ be weak, Plada? He's been training since he was five. He was born for the Games, bred for the Games. More so than most. He is stronger than Tiberius _ever_ was."

My mother's lips pull back, and something inside me twists, wretchedly.

"But, then again... if he still fails to win, he will be a sorry waste of effort, indeed."

There it is. A clench my jaw as I feel a rush of anger at her implication that I am a worthless son. Yet she considers Octavia, a pampered brat, more worthy of attention than me. These thoughts are poison to the body, to the mind, overshadowing my every action. And I can't get rid of them.

I clench my teeth, hating it. I'll show her. I'll win the Hunger Games, and I'll win _her_ games.

More than anything, I want her to see that I'm worth it.

Because I deserve it.

* * *

_Satin Hallester, 18 Years Old_

* * *

Today, the sky is bright blue. The air is humid, but the wind is crisp, and I relax into the sun's soothing rays of liquid warmth. The people of District One come and go, buzzing like worker ants as they hurry past, sometimes brushing by me rudely. They only give a glare to my height, as if I have intentionally slowed them, before rushing forward again. At times I wonder what causes people to be so impatient, so frazzled.

Then again. It is Reaping Day.

I take my time walking. When I reach the town square, it is already packed, and everyone is humming with anticipation. The adults survey their children with expectant eyes. All prospective tributes are blocked together in their age groups, a line of rope separating those willing to volunteer from the ones who do not. There are fewer volunteers this year. The Quell has inspired wariness in the weaker-willed.

After signing in, I head to the crowd of eighteen-year-olds and step over the rope to join the volunteers. I only look back to search the sea of faces for Lysanna, my girlfriend. As always, I had my birthday last month, and stand apart from her. A few seconds later, I catch her over in the non-volunteer section of the seventeen-year-olds, joking around with a friend. She spots me and gives an enthusiastic wave, grinning all the while. I give a small nod back, amused. Lysanna then points to my outfit and gapes in mock horror. I blink. True- I am wearing her age-old, rather oversized cartoon panther shirt. Lysanna is embarrassed to wear it in public herself, but I do not mind it, even on Reaping Day. Clothing is but a trivial thing, and as long as it keeps one decent it does not matter what the appearance is. I do not care for it much. But shoes are reasonably worse, and I never wear them. They are too constricting and inefficient. I wriggle my bare toes against the sun-baked ground, pressing against the pavement. My feet may be ugly because I refuse to cover them, but at least they may breathe.

Lysanna simply breaks out into a smile when I shrug my indifference, and mouths "Good luck!" Despite myself, I feel a smile quirk up.

I turn away, back in the detachment of my group. Standing silent and solitary, I wait for the Reaping to begin.

I do not have to wait long. Cordelia Truffles, in twiggy stilettos, hops onto the stage with a strained smile. Soon her parroty voice is echoing through the microphone as she attempts to make herself heard.

"Excuse me! Excuse me!" Our escort chirps. The majority of District One ignores her. After a few more failed attempts, she purses her lips and takes in a deep breath, exhaling out of her nostrils.

"Oh, District One, not again... I swear to you if you don't-" There is a surge of voices- "My goodness! AT-TEN-TION, PLEASE!"

The clamor dies down and Cordelia Truffles gives another tight smile. Her blinding green dress is too tight around the waist, and she is having a hard time breathing. She is a pinched woman, crumpled into a persona that is too big for her. I would pity her, but she chose her job.

"Now ladies and gentlemen. Before we go live, let me remind you that we will not be having another..._ incident_," many people wince, "like last year. If you want to volunteer, dears, there will be not be any pushing, shoving, kicking, choking-"

Last year, three people volunteered at once. Needless to say, it was ugly, and the Capitol had to edit the feed before broadcasting to the other districts. When watching the recaps, it was very noticeable indeed how Tassel Hortega shouted out "I volunteer!" with a broad smile, and then suddenly walked up the stage with a bloody nose.

"-throttling or maiming, or you will not be going to the Games!" Cordelia finishes. She clears her throat and gives us a smile. Her teeth are are as green as her dress. "To volunteer, you must stay absolutely rooted to the spot, raise your hand, and announce your willingness to volunteer loudly and clearly. Understood?"

Here in District One, if a willing volunteer is reaped, they may go without opposition. If a non-volunteer is chosen, however, the tribute slot is fair game.

You have to fight for a chance to die. But victory is the highest honor, at least for the majority of the Careers. I myself am not looking to volunteer for fame or glory, but something else.

The broadcast begins. I do not pay attention to the speech on the Hunger Games' history, but rather the previous victors, who stand alert and watchful, raking their eyes over us like predators. In the seventy-five years since the Second Rebellion, District One has had fourteen victors. The Capitol executed every victor who won before the 76th Games. Without guidance, many of the Districts were clueless and died quick deaths.

District One won that year. It is reasonable to gain strength while your adversaries are busy with their own affairs.

"...And now, time for the Reaping." Cordelia Truffles' squawky voice announces. My eyes to slide to the two Reaping balls, gleaming in the sunlight. "Ladies first!"

I see her dip a spindly hand into the girls' bowl, drawing it out as delicately as a lady spraying her perfume. I know my name is one among a sea of others, and it will not be called. I watch, I wait, I listen.

The silence is screaming with nervous poise. I hear a rustle of paper.

"Lysanna-"

My head goes blank. Strange, how lucky I am today. Floating in my mind, I am aware of the knowledge that Lysanna is standing in the non-volunteer section.

My hand shoots up, and my deep voice silences all others. "I volunteer as tribute."

Cordelia Truffles looks as startled as everyone else at my rapid-fire response. I hear groans of disappointment under her thrilled call. "My! So quick. Your name, dear?"

"Satin Hallester."

"Good, good! Come up, now." There are resentful murmurs as the others complain over their missed opportunity, and negative sounds in general, save for Lysanna's "Yeah, Satin!".

"A round of applause for District One's female tribute, Satin Hallester!"

The applause is almost empty, but bitterness is rife. People are so confusing.

If they wanted to volunteer, they should've done it faster.

* * *

_Nero Caligula, 13 Years Old_

* * *

"Damn, we're gonna win this year," a kid next to me grunts, squinting at our female tribute. "Have you heard of her? She's Lydia Hallester's daughter. You know, the fist fighting teacher. What a freak..." Despite his words, his voice carries a hint of awe, and I glance at him in irritation before turning away. My gaze hovers on my stepfather for a moment, standing up on stage. Pompey is oozing old pride and cool that can only come to a Career victor.

Arrogant ass. When _I _win, let's see who's acting like he's King of the Caligulas.

I look away and analyze my district partner to-be. She's a contender for sure, and I have no doubt that she could rip me to shreds in a heartbeat. She's huge, for one thing, at least a full foot taller than me, older and more experienced as well. She's muscular and her arms are tattooed, and it's obvious by her serious expression that she won't give a crap about my age. Not to mention her mother is our district's primary hand-to-hand combat instructor. She's got an edge with that.

I'm thinking about how I can win her over to be my ally when Parrot Woman, in that ridiculous green outfit, says, "And now for our Boy Tribute!"

My attention snaps to her. I tense up and lean forward a little, raising my chin so I can get a better look of her drawing the slip. The minute she opens her mouth, I'm yelling out my name whether she chose a volunteer or not. It's first come, first serve, and I can already hear the other male volunteers shifting around in impatience.

Parrot Woman flips the paper and smiles, dragging her nail along the crease, ripping the paper as if she's got all the time in the world. I will her to hurry up with a glare. Could she go any slower?

The slip is almost open, and Parrot Woman trills, "Our male tribute is..."

_RIIIP!_

"..._Fe-_"

There is a sudden burst of noise as all the guys attempt to make themselves heard, a roar of "I's" and "I-vol"'s.

"I vo-"

"I-"

It's a madhouse, and it's wild. We're all starving to get chosen, but only one will come out on top...

_"I VOLUNTEER!"_

...And that is me.

It takes a while for the rest of the guys to realize what has happened, but by then Parrot Woman's got her eyes fixed on me, the short little boy standing in the thirteen-year-old block. She looks anxious with the sharp change of atmosphere, and instead of crowing out in delight she motions frantically for me to walk up.

I do, smiling happily at the cameras, radiating boyish charm. I'm going to attract sponsors as fast as I can.

The Hunger Games have started. I'm just not in the arena yet.

When I reach the stage, Parrot Woman offers me a tight quirk of her lips as she says, "What a lovely boy we have this year! What's your name, dear?"

I stare straight at her. Her smile wavers, and after a moment I answer "Nero Caligula" with a devilish smirk.

After the applause, Parrot Woman steps aside and folds her birdlike hands together as we wait for the mayor to finish the Treaty of Treason. Right after he's done, she pushes Satin and I together to shake hands. The height difference makes me boil in frustration. My head barely passes her elbows.

I swallow hard as my district partner's iron grip almost breaks my hand, but keep on smiling. Satin isn't even looking at me. Rather, her eyes stare right above my head, impassive and blank. I grit my teeth- does she see me as a weakling? As we let go, Parrot Woman turns to the audience sharply, beaming as bright as her plastic teeth. "Ladies and gentlemen, your District One tributes for our 150th Games: Satin Hallester and Nero Caligula!"

In the heat of the moment, basking in glory, is when I finally catch sight of Elagabalus and Commodus. Even though they're not the same age, they are standing together, their gazes boring into me. Commodus looks infuriated; Elagabalus is trying to calm him down. I can read their lips. "Nero! Nero!"

Watching them feels like a punch to the gut. But the worst part is when I spot my mother, regal and untouchable and the Queen of Hearts.

She's not even clapping.

* * *

_Satin Hallester, 18 Years Old_

* * *

My goodbyes are few, but they are all the more important. I can count them with one hand: Mother, Father, Lysanna.

"My baby-girl! And here I was, thinking you were never going to volunteer. I'm so proud of you, Satin." Mother wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. I am slightly disturbed by this. She never cries, of course, except when I am leaving to fight for my life. She is a courageous woman, but at times I think fighting has influenced her too much. She punches me in the shoulder, a greater sign of affection than any motherly embrace. "Go get 'em. Show those pansies your fists of fury! The Hallester Hook, the Satin Slugger-" She continues to list off random offensive attacks, stopping only when my father lays a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Lydia," he mutters, eyes rolled in exasperation, "get to the point, dear." Mother's lips wobble a little as she casts an irritated look at him, causing Father to send her a bland look. Mother grabs my shoulder and thumps me on the back.

"Huh. Fine. Pep-talk time, Satin! So listen up," she instructs. I blink and give a short nod. Mother being serious is as common as her crying. "The Games are messed up. They're psycho, alright? They're going to _mess up your mind_. Don't do anything that doesn't feel natural to ya'. That's how people go crazy, doing something they don't want to. So. I'm only going to say this once: Don't kill if you don't want to. There's other ways to win, and Satin, you're strong. You're going to win and I don't doubt that in the slightest- as long as you keep your head!"

She's about to continue when the Peacekeepers come in. My mother snaps at their impatience and gives me one more pat on the back before leaving, barking at the Peacekeepers, "Yeah, I'm going" and hustling out of the room. My father, though, takes his time, resting a huge, warm hand on my hair like he used to do when I was a little girl.

"Kick ass, child." I cannot help but smile a little at his words. No words of affection are needed. "And we're rooting for you."

With that, my parents are gone.

Lysanna is the next and last to come in, and when she does she throws her arms around me. I am not one for such close contact, but with Lysanna I allow her to rest her chin on my shoulders.

After we pull away, she shoots me a soft smile. "So you went ahead and volunteered?"

I shrug and shoot her a knowing look, because she knows I was going to. "Yes."

"I won't say I'm not worried, because I am. But if anyone's going to win, it's you. And I'm not just saying that, Satin." I say nothing. I don't need to. Lysanna presses her forehead to mine. It is quiet, just the two of us in together. We are the best of friends, we are greater than friends. Something whole.

Lysanna cracks an eye open. "Still, if you don't come back I'll have to go there and kill you myself," she says seriously. Then she bursts into laughter. I laugh along with her, as her words are the farthest from anything possible.

A Peacekeeper swings open the door. "Time!"

"Shoot," Lysanna exclaims, as if recalling something. She digs into her pocket and fishes out a dirty ash-stained rag- her blacksmith's cloth. "Here, I want you to take this for your token. My handkerchief." When I give her an amused look, she grins in indignation and hands it to me. "Oh, just take it!"

She gives me a light kiss on the cheek before the Peacekeeper insists she leave again, and shouts, with a joking smile as always, "You better return that!"

The scrap of fabric, so precious and delicate in my giant hands, fills me with a sense of peace.

"Don't worry," I say, long after she is gone, "I'm coming back."


End file.
